side of the vessel which is to bear him away. Here hope lingers; the winds may be unfavourable; an accident may detain the vessel an hour, or at least a few minutes longer: if so, the look which we thought was the last will be succeeded by others. But no accident detains the vessel; the winds are favourable ; the vessel moves; she is in the river; her sails are filled; she moves on; and, as a bend of the river hides her from our sight, we recognise our friend, standing, to the last, in view, and with his hat in his hand he waves it in the air. All now is dreadful certainty, the ship itself has disappeared, and we feel conscious that we have seen our friend for the last time. The last day of the year is a last thing well calculated to arouse our attention. While seated around the family hearths, the conversation becomes more and more grave, as we approach the last moment; or if we, in jovial society, endeavour to suppress the remonstrances of conscience, we cannot, unless we sink ourselves below the level of the brute creation. We may join in the loud laugh; we may be leaders in merriment; but as the last minute draws near, a sigh will arise, or a pang will be felt, which all our revelry knows not how to obviate. And if we stay a moment to inquire-What is it that inspires this feeling? we shall find nothing in the last day of December more than in that of May; nothing in the last minute of the former day more than in that of the latter, abstractedly considered, as a portion of time: to answer the question we must refer to the secondary idea, that it closes a year-a revolution of the seasons-a portion of time which has proffered us innumerable opportunities for improvement, many, very many of which, conscience tells us, we have allowed to pass unnoticed, or have treated with contempt. This last moment is a time of great acquired value. The year, as a year considered, is so wide a field for our thoughts to rove in, that they can settle upon no definite spot, as possessing more than ordinary attractions; but when we are narrowed down to the smaller circle of thirty-one days, and that under another denomination, they become more definite, and the end is brought in view; the moments as they pass are valued more highly.. Then, when we are driven into the still narrower circle of a day-the last day; from that to the hour-the last hour; and think that when the clock again strikes the year is gone-for ever, we feel more and more: the minutes roll round, one goes, and leaves its number less;' that minute has gone, never to be repeated! but, at length, the last minute comes; now not minutes flee, but seconds. We staud almost upon a point, and the mind, instead of ranging through an indefinite field, can explore every particle of its enclosure. But we await the last second, into which we roll all the importance of the whole year: we utter 'the last,' and the idea becomes oppressive; our thoughts are of the most intense nature, they rove not, but are immovably fixed; a deafening silence prevails; an awe pervades our minds; we are wound up to the highest pitch of excitement; the clock strikes; the bubble bursts; the cloud vanishes ; THE LAST MOMENT is no more! I have before attempted to describe a last interview with a friend, I will now sketch the last scene with a minister; with which I will close. I was long an occasional hearer at the parish church of F, being in the habit of spending a short time, at intervals, with a neighbouring farmer. The rector was a man verging upon ninety at the time when the incident I am about to relate transpired. He was really the pastor of his people; he loved them as a father loves his children, and was, in return, blest with their filial affection and tender regard. Not only did his own parishioners attend his ministry; those of other places, conscious of his worth, crowded to his church, as the Scripture beautifully expresses it, 'as doves to their windows.' Often has the passage of holy writ now partly quoted, forced itself upon my mind, as I have noticed the decently attired peasantry coming, in all directions, over the beautiful country, to the consecrated pile, in which the man of God was to minister to them in holy things; yes, often have I mentally inquired, 'Who are these that fly as a cloud, and as doves to their windows?' Then has our great sabbatic festival appeared in all its simplicity and beauty; then has the day of rest appeared in its true colours. But this is a digression. Since I had last visited my friend, the rector, whose health had been for years gradually decaying, had suffered a severe domestic calamity; his wife, the partner alike of his youth and his age, the sharer of his toils and his happiness, had died. The friends of the good old man- and his friends were all who knew him -predicted that he would sink beneath the shock; that they who were so lovely and pleasant in their lives, in death would not be divided; but the venerable pastor did not sink as was expected; his wife's death was a great shock to him, but he survived; and being anxious not to desert his master while he had any strength left, he resolved to preach once on the Sunday, which was the first of my visit. It was to be a funeral sermon for his wife, and those who were surprised at his surviving the announcement of her death, felt confident that the peculiar nature of the service would work some mighty change. All hoped and prayed to the contrary, but still they felt an inward conviction that this would be his last sermon. The desk was occupied by his curate, but when the prayers bad been read, and while the psalm was singing, with all the chastened simplicity of rustic harmony, a crush was felt in the aisle, and the grief-worn old man came from the vestry leaning on the arms of his two sons: they assisted him to the pulpit, which he ascended with apparent difficulty, and when seated so altered was he, that he looked more like a shadow of what he once was, than any thing else to which I could compare him. He rose to repeat the collect, which he went through with some energy. The text was pronounced with rather a faltering tone, but, when the preacher entered upon his sermon, he gradually rose to a pitch of voice greatly superior to that of half his juniors. The silence of the tomb prevailed in every part of the church; all ears and all eyes were directed to the preacher. Anxiety was pictured on all countenances--anxiety for the issue; and a certain restlessness of demeanour in the more favoured of the preacher's friends, indicated a more than ordinary feeling. In the course of his sermon many touching allusions were made to her who was no more; several times the preacher faltered and wept, and was for some moments unable to resume his subject; when he did resume it, it was but to point out another virtue, or to recall another of her innumerable excellencies. The words with which his sermon closed-for he could proceed no further I thought were very impressive; and when we recollect that they were uttered by a man of his years, down whose furrowed cheeks the big tears rolled, falling, one by one, upon the cushion before him, it is no marvel that they made a deep impression upon the congregation: he said, 'I have long broken the bread of life among you; before you I have repeatedly set the Saviour, who, thanks to my God, has not altogether been as a root out of dry ground, not altogether without form or comeliness; but unto many, very many, à saver of life unto life. I am not tired of the employ; as long as any strength remains in my poor old body it shall be readily and gladly dedicated to my master's service, but my labours must close. The little lark rises from earth on her feathery pinions to the heavens; she cheers her way by her song she mounts upward, and tires not to fly or sing; but, when the atmosphere will bear her no higher, she unwillingly descends to earth, and ends her music in a mournful lay. So would I rise, so have I risen; but I feel that I can ascend no higher; my body must descend to earth, but my spirit shall rise to the heaven of heavens, there to be reintroduced to those I loved on earth. One but he could proceed no further, he had touched a string whose vibrations were more violent than he expected; his tears choked his utterance : he laid his head upon his cushion, wept aloud, and, at length, was carried senseless from his pulpit. There was not a tearless eye in the whole church. Before me stood a venerable rustic, who rudely wiped away the freely falling tears with the cuff of his coat; and at my right hand a sweet girl of sixteen raised her handkerchief to perform the same office. I could not forbear, my harder heart was melted, and sorrowfully I joined in the melancholy chorus. The same night the preacher's spirit was wafted by the angelic host to the rest prepared for him; and now, though it is years since he died, a tear fills the eye of every narrator as he mentions THAT LAST SERMON. U. C. K. L'E. THE TOWER OF LONDON. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame.-Gray. Of the fierce game that prowl and perish there. |